The sun was still relatively high, and its warmth was very pleasant, not harsh as it would be later in the summer. The Road’s surface was of some material she had never seen before, since she had never actually dared to venture down to the Road itself even once in her life, and there was little or no dust. The scent of green growing things on the breeze was like wine to her, and she drank in every bit of her experience greedily. At any moment now she might come upon the Herald this Companion rightfully belonged to; her adventure would be over, and it wasn’t likely she’d ever get to ride a Companion again. Every moment was precious and must be stored away in her memory against the future.

As candlemarks passed and no Herald—in fact, nothing more than a squirrel or two—came into view, Talia began to fall into a kind of trance; the steady pace of the Companion and the Road stretching ahead of her was hypnotic. Something comforting just at the edge of her awareness lulled her into tranquillity. She was lost in this trance for some time, and only came back to herself when the setting sun struck her full in the eyes. Her anxieties and fears had somehow disappeared while she’d ridden unmindful of her suroundings. Now there was only a calm, and a feeling of rightness about this journey—and a tentative feeling of excitement. But night was coming on fast, and she and the Companion were still alone together on the Road.

The shape of the landscape had changed while she rode unaware. The double drop-off had leveled off, very gradually, so gradually that she hadn’t noticed it. Now the woods and fields to her right were level with the surface of the Road, and the Road itself was only a foot or two above the lapping surface of the water. The River was a scant two horse-lengths away from the verge of the Road. The land had flattened out so much that Talia knew for certain she was no longer even close to the lands belonging to the Holderfolk that lay on the Border of the Kingdom.

“Are we going to travel all night?” she asked the Companion, who cocked his ears back to catch her words. He whuffed, shook his head, and slowed to a walk. Now she could hear the sounds that birds make only when they’re preparing to roost; quiet, sleepy little chirrups and half-calls. The Companion seemed to be looking for something on the woodward side of the Road; at least that was the impression Talia got. Just as the setting sun began to dye his white coat a bright scarlet, he seemed to spot what he was looking for. With no warning, he sped up and trotted right off the Road and down a path into the woods.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

He just shook his head and kept to the path. The trees were far too thick on either side for her to even think of trying to jump off. The underbrush was thick and full of shadows that made her fears reawaken. She had no idea what might be lurking in the growth beneath the trees. There could be thorns there, or stenchbeetles, or worse. Biting her lip in vexation and worry, she could only cling to the saddle and wait.

The path abruptly widened into a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a small building; only a single room, and windowless, but with a chimney. It was very clearly well-maintained, and just as clearly vacant. With a surge of relief, Talia recognized it from her reading as a Herald’s Waystation.

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely to the ears that were swiveled back to catch her words, “You did know what you were doing, didn’t you?”

The Companion only slowed to a stop, pivoted neatly before the door of the Waystation, shook his forelock out of his eyes and waited for her to dismount.

The tales she’d read were a great help here; Talia knew exactly what she’d find and approximately where to find it. She swung her leg carefully over the Companion’s back and slid slowly to the ground. Moving quickly (she discovered with a touch of dismay) wasn’t possible. She’d never spent this much time in a saddle before, and her legs were feeling very stiff, and a little sore and shaky.

She knew that her first duty was to see to the needs of the Companion. She unsaddled him quickly, and noticed with a start of surprise as she removed the bridle that it had no bit, being little more than an elaborate hackamore. There was no way that it could “control” him, not unless his Herald had the strength of arm to wrench his head around by main force. It was a most peculiar piece of tack—and what it implied was even more peculiar.

She stacked the tack carefully by the door of the Waystation, then lifted the latch and peered around inside. There was just enough daylight left for her to locate what she was looking for; a tinderbox on a shelf just inside the door.

She laid tinder and cautiously lit a very small fire in the fireplace; just enough to give light to see. With the interior of the Waystation illuminated, Talia was able to locate her second requirement; rags to clean the tack, and a currycomb to groom the Companion.

He stood far more placidly than any of her Father’s horses while she groomed every last speck of sweat and dust from his coat. When she’d clearly finished with him he cantered to the center of the clearing for a brisk roll in the grass. She giggled to see him drop his dignity and act so very horselike, particularly after the way he’d been acting up until this point—almost as if it was he that was taking her to someone. She cleaned the tack just as carefully as she’d cleaned him, with a sensuous enjoyment of the leathery scent. She put it just inside the door where the dew wouldn’t reach it. There had been two buckets next to the pile of rags; in the blue dusk she hurried down to the river with them while she could still see. The Companion came with her, weeds whisking his legs and hers, following her like a puppy, and drank his fill while she filled the buckets.

The delightful feel of the cool water around her feet reminded her how grubby and sticky she was. There had been first her run through the woods, followed by the fall down the bank, then the long ride to ensure that she needed a bath. And part of the regime of any Holdchild was an almost painful devotion to cleanliness. Talia was more used to feeling scoured than dirty, and fastidiously preferred the former sensation.

“You may be a Companion,” she told the watching stallion, “but you still smell like a horse, and now so do I. Do you think it would be safe to bathe here?”

The Companion whickered, then took a few steps away from her and pawed with his hoof at the edge of the water, nodding his head as if to be certain she caught his meaning. She went to where he was standing, and peered through the gathering darkness down into the waterweeds.

“Oh!” she cried delightedly, “Soaproot! It must be all right then; Heralds wouldn’t plant soaproot where it wasn’t safe to bathe.”

Without another thought, she stripped down to the bare skin. She started to pile her clothing on the bank, but changed her mind, and took it into the water with her. It would probably dry wrinkled, but wrinkles were better than dirt.

The water was sunwarmed, like silk against her bare skin, and the bottom here was sandy rather than muddy. She splashed and swam like a young otter, enjoying the sensation of being able to skinswim like a little without wondering what Keldar would do if she caught her. It occurred to Talia that her bridges were all burned now, for certain sure. No female of marriageable age gone overnight without leave would ever be accepted back into the Holding as anything but a drudge, and that only if the Husband and Firstwife were feeling magnanimous. For one moment Talia felt frightened by the idea, for after her performance of this afternoon no one at the Holding was likely to feel generosity on her behalf—but then her eyes fell on the luminous white form of the Companion waiting for her on the bank, and she decided that she should make up her mind not to care, not even a little bit.

When she’d scrubbed herself and her clothing with clean sand and soaproot and the air was beginning to feel chilly, she decided she’d had enough. The Companion continued to follow her all the way back to the shelter, and once they’d reached their goal, he nudged her toward the door with his nose and whickered in entreaty. There was no doubt in Talia’s mind as to what he wanted, and it no longer seemed odd to be taking her direction from him.

“Greedy!” she chuckled, “Want your supper, do you? That should teach you not to run away, Rolan!”

She paused then, and frowned a little in concentration. “Now where did I get that name?” she wondered aloud. She gazed at the moonlight-dappled Companion, who stood easily, ears cocked forward, watching her. “From you? Is that your name? Rolan?”

For a moment she felt disoriented, as if seeing through someone else’s eyes. It almost seemed as if she and something else were briefly joined as one—it was uncanny, and yet not at all frightening. Then the moment passed.

“Well, I suppose I have to call you something, no matter where the name came from. Just let me put my things up to dry and go back for the buckets, Rolan. Then I’ll get supper for both of us.”

She poured a generous measure of grain for him, then took a fire-blackened pot she’d seen earlier to make a grain-and-fruit porridge for herself. Rolan finished his own portion before her porridge was done and moved closer to lie in the grass an arm’s length off from her with every sign of content. Insects sang in the woods all around them, and leaves rustled slightly. The firelight shone on Rolan’s coat as she leaned up against the Waystation wall, feeling oddly happy.

“What I don’t understand,” she said to him, “Is why you ran away. Companions aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing, are they?”

Rolan simply opened his eyes wide at her and looked wise.

“I hope you know where we’re going because I certainly don’t. Still, we’re bound to meet a Herald sometime, and I’m sure he’ll know what to do with you.”

The porridge looked and smelled done; she pulled the pot out of the fire with a branch and began to eat it with her fingers as soon as it had cooled enough.

“It really is strange, you coming along when you did,” she told him, “I expect I’d have been found before dark or gotten resigned to the situation and gone back to the Holding myself.” She regarded him with speculative eyes. “I don’t suppose—you didn’t come to rescue me, did you? No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not a Herald, I’m just Holderkin; just strange Talia. Why would you want to rescue me? Besides, if you’d meant to rescue me, you would have brought your Herald along, wouldn’t you?” she sighed, a little sadly. “I wish I was your Herald. I’d like to live like this always.”

Rolan’s eyes were closed, and his head nodded. Now that her stomach was comfortably full, Talia found her own head beginning to nod. The woods were very dark, the ground beneath her was very hard, and the interior of the Waystation looked very inviting to a girl who’d seldom spent a night out under the sky, and never alone.

“Well, if you’re going to go to sleep, I’d better do the same.”

She banked the fire, covering the pot of porridge with the coals and ashes to keep the rest of it warm for breakfast, then pulled up armfuls of the long grass to use to fill the bedbox. It didn’t take very long; once she’d settled, Rolan moved to lie across the door, almost like a guard dog. It seemed to her that she’d no sooner tumbled into it, than she was fast asleep.

She woke to the sound of birdsong with Rolan standing in the Waystation beside the bedbox nudging her shoulder. For one moment she couldn’t remember exactly where she was, confused with sleep; then with full awareness it all came back with a rush. She jumped out of her nest of sweet-smelling grasses to hug Rolan’s neck, overwhelmed with thankfulness that it hadn’t all been a dream.

She ate her breakfast quickly, then cleaned herself and the shelter to the best of her ability. She buried the ashes of the dead fire with a little twinge of guilt; she knew that etiquette demanded that she replace the wood she’d used, but without an axe, that simply wasn’t possible. She’d have felt a lot guiltier had it been Midwinter instead of Midsummer, and she’d really used very little of what seemed to be a plentiful supply. Once all was in as good order as she’d found it, she saddled Rolan and they trotted back to the Road.

The morning passed swiftly. Not only was every moment with Rolan a delight and a treasure, but now there was more to see as well. The dense woods began to give way to cultivated fields; in the distance she saw stock grazing, and once or twice a cottage, shaded by trees and cooled by ivy. Then, just after the sun crossed overhead, the Road curved and dove down into a village, set in a small valley.

Talia couldn’t help but stare about her with amazed eyes; this village was very different from the one she’d lived near all her life. The Holderfolk wore nothing but somber colors, nothing gayer than a dull saffron; but here it seemed that everyone had a touch of bird-bright color about him. Even the shabbiest had at least a scarf or hair ribbon of scarlet or blue. Some (the look of them showing they were prosperous folk who needn’t worry about soiling their clothing with work) were dressed entirely in colors. Even the houses were festive with bright designs on their whitewashed walls, and the shutters were painted to match. Those houses looked extremely odd to Talia—why, they couldn’t have held more than one man, his Firstwife, and a few littles! There was obviously no room at all for Underwives and their littles. Talia wondered if each Wife had her own house, then giggled at the unseemly (but amusing) notion of the Husband running from house to house in the night, intent on doing his duty with each of his Wives.

The village itself, besides looking prosperous and well-cared-for, was also unenclosed; a startling sight to one who was used to seeing walls and stockades around inhabited places.

She reined in Rolan at the sight of a man standing beside a small hut positioned just at the verge of the Road where it first entered the village proper. He looked as if he must be some sort of guard or official; he was dressed in garments of a bright blue that matched, from boots to hat. He had a quiver of short arrows on his back, and Talia saw a crossbow leaning beside him against the wall of the hut.

The sight of him alarmed her no small amount—in her experience, men (especially men in obvious positions of authority) were creatures to be feared. They held the power of life and death over the members of their families; they decreed the rewards of the obedient and the punishments of the rebellious. How many times had the Elders or her Father deemed it necessary that she be beaten or sent into isolation for far, far less than she’d done in the past two days? Too many times to count easily, for certain sure. There was no indication that this stranger might not order the same punishments for her now; or worse, send her back to the Holding. Yet she was going to have to speak to someone; she’d been searching for nearly a day now and hadn’t found any clue to where this Companion belonged. He seemed to have a friendly, open face, and she took her courage in hand to address him.

“P-pray excuse me, sir,” she said politely, stuttering a little, “but have you seen a Herald who’s lost his Companion?”

Her question seemed to startle him, and he approached the two of them slowly, as if trying not to frighten her (leaving his crossbow behind, Talia noted with relief).

“No indeed, young miss,” he replied, “Why ask you?”

“I found this Companion alone on the Road yesterday,” she answered hesitantly, still not sure she hadn’t done wrong despite the fact that it didn’t seem he was going to take her into custody or hail her before a Council of Elders just yet, “And it seemed to me I should take him back to whoever he belongs with.”

He measured her with his eyes; she found his scrutiny unnerving. “Where are you from, child?” he asked at last.

“Sensholding, near Cordor. Back that way.” She waved vaguely back down the Road in the direction she’d come.

“Ah, Holderfolk,” he said, as if that explained something to him, “Well, young miss, there’s only one thing you can do if you find a lone Companion. You have to return him to the Herald’s Collegium yourself.”

“Me?” her voice broke with alarm. “The Collegium? By myself?”

He nodded, and she gulped. “Is it very far?” she asked in a near-whisper.

“By ordinary horse, three weeks or more, depending on the weather. You’re riding a Companion, though, and a little thing like you would be hardly more than a feather to him. You should get there in eight or nine days, perhaps a bit more.”

“Eight—or nine—days?” she faltered, looking self-consciously down at her wrinkled, travel-stained clothing. In eight or nine days, she’d look like a tramp. They’d probably shoot her on sight, for thieving Rolan away!

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, seeming to read her thoughts. “Now, don’t you worry, young miss. The Queen makes provisions for circumstances like these. Just wait right here.”

She didn’t have much choice; Rolan seemed to be rooted to the ground. The man returned in short order with a pair of saddlebags, a brown wool cloak draped over one arm, and a small piece of metal in his hand. “Goodwife Hardaxe has a girl a bit older than you; there’s a couple of changes of clothing she’s outgrown in the lefthand bag.”

She attempted to voice a protest but he interrupted her. “No argument, young miss. I told you the Queen herself makes provisions for this sort of thing. We help you, and we get half taxes next year, the whole village. The right hand bag’s got some odds ’n ends in it; firestarter, comb and brush, things you’ll need if your Companion can’t find a Waystation. Don’t be afraid to use what’s in the Waystations either; that’s what they’re there for.”

He tossed the bags over Rolan’s back, fastening them securely to the back of the saddle. “This cloak’s good oiled wool; it should keep the rain off you, and this time of year it ought to be enough to keep you warm if the weather turns nasty. It’s more than a bit big, but that’s all to the good. Means less of you will hang outside it. Ah, here comes the Innmaster.”

A pleasant-faced, plump man came puffing up. He had a waterskin, a small pouch, and a dun-colored frieze bag with him. The wonderful meaty odors rising from the bag made Talia’s mouth water, and her stomach reminded her forcibly that it had been a long time since breakfast.

“I saw you didn’t have a belt-pouch, so I left word with Daro that you might be needing one,” the first man said, “People are always leaving things behind at the Inn.”

“I just filled this bag with good spring water,” the plump Innmaster said, slinging it on one of the many snaffles adorning the saddle before she could say anything, “And there’s an eating knife and a spoon in the pouch. Put it on now, there’s a good girl; I’ve got more left-behind eating tools than you could ever imagine! And these pasties ought to stay sound for longer than it’ll take you to eat ’em, if I know the appetite of a growing child!” He handed her the bag, and wiped his hands on his apron, smiling. “Now you make sure you tell people how good our baking is! I have to get back to my custom.” And he puffed off before she could thank him.

“See this?” the first man said, holding up a little scrap of engraved brass. “When you get to the Collegium, give this chit to the person who asks you for it. This tells them that we helped you along the way.” He handed it to her, and she placed it carefully in her new belt pouch. “If you need anything, just ask people dressed the way I am, and they’ll be sure to help you. We’re part of the Army, the Roadguards.”

Talia was all but incoherent with surprise at her good fortune. Not only had she not been punished or even scolded for her actions, not only had she not been sent back home, but it seemed that she was actually being rewarded with the opportunity to go where she’d never dared to dream she’d be allowed! “Th-th-ank you! B-b-right Lady, it just doesn’t seem like enough just to say thank you—”

The guard chuckled, his eyes disappearing in the smile-crinkles. “Young miss, it’s us who’ll remember you with thanks, come tax-time! Anything else you need?”

Rolan seemed to think it was time they were on their way again, and began moving impatiently off. “No, nothing,” she called over her shoulder as he waved a casual farewell.

Rolan quickly resumed his normal pace and the village fell rapidly behind them, so quickly that Talia had only just realized that she didn’t even know the name of the place or her benefactor when it was gone from view.

“Oh, well,” she said to Rolan as she bit hungrily into a lightly spiced meat pie, “I’m not likely to forget the baking of Darowife. Even Isrel never made anything that tasted like this, not even for feastdays!”

She looked with curiousity at the brass “chit.” It bore a number, and the word “Sweetsprings.”

“Sweetsprings?” she mused. “That must be the town. I wish I knew what was going on! I’ve never read or heard anything about Companions running away before, but he acted like it happens all the time.”

She passed through another village near to suppertime. This one was much smaller than Sweetsprings had been; mostly a collection of houses and huts around a blacksmith’s forge. It was apparently too small to warrant one of the blue-clad Guards, but the people seemed just as friendly. They waved at her as she cantered past, bridle bells ringing, and didn’t seem to find anything at all disturbing in the sight of a slightly grubby girl atop a Herald’s Companion. Talia could not help contrasting their friendliness with the reaction she’d have gotten from Holderfolk. At best, her own people would have stared, then coldly turned their backs on such unseemly behavior from a girl-child. At worst, they’d have tried to stop her; tried to pull her from Rolan’s back to incarcerate as a thief.

Once again, as night was about to fall, Rolan found a Waystation. The Road and the River had parted company not long since, but this shelter boasted a well, so they didn’t lack water. Talia discovered among the odds and ends the guard had assembled for her a little box of soft, homemade soap and a washcloth, as well as a currycomb and brush for Rolan. When the moon rose, both of them were much cleaner.

She decided (somewhat reluctantly) to save the pies for her midday meals and manage with porridge for the rest. Once again she fed the two of them, and fell soundly asleep in spite of the relative discomfort of the primitive Waystation.

On the third day of the journey, Talia was sufficiently used to the novelty of riding Companion-back that she found her mind drifting to other things. The position of the sun would remind her that at home she’d have been at some particular task, and she found herself wondering what the Holding was making of her disappearance. There wasn’t anyone in her extended family she was really close to anymore, not since Andrean had been killed in a raid and they’d sent Vrisa as Underwife to old man Fletcher. Of all her kin, only those two had ever seemed to really love her—even Father’s Mother hadn’t cared enough for her to stand up for her when she’d done something that truly enraged Keldar. Only those two had dared to brave the Firstwife’s anger. Vris acted covertly, smuggling forbidden meals when punishment included doing without dinner. Andrean had been more open, demanding she be allowed to do something or coaxing Father to forgive her sooner. It had been at Andrean’s insistence that she was allowed to continue her reading, for as Second son, his words had carried weight. And she and Vrisa had been closer than sibs; almost like twins in spite of the difference in their ages.

Tears stung her eyes at the thought of Andrean—so gentle with her, protective; always with a smile and a joke to share. He had been with her such a short time—he’d been killed when she was only nine. She could still remember him clearly, looming over her like a sheltering giant. He’d been so kind and patient—so ready to teach her anything she wanted to learn. He was everyone’s favorite—except for Keldar. Truly the Goddess must have wanted him with Her, to take him so young—but Talia had needed him, too. They’d scolded her for crying at his wake, but it had been herself she had been crying for.

And poor Vris; she’d been terrified at the prospect of Marriage to old Fletcher, and it seemed she had been right to be so fearful. The few times Talia had seen her at Gatherings, she’d been pale and taut-looking, and as silent as one of the Lady’s Handmaidens. All the sparkle had been snuffed out of her, and nothing was left but the ashes.

Talia shuddered—Vris’ fate could so easily have been her own. The Companion’s timely arrival seemed little less than miraculous in that light.

As she rode, she found her hands itching for something to do. Never since she could remember had there ever been a time when her hands hadn’t been filled with some task. Even her reading was only allowed so long as she was occupied with some necessary job at the same time. To have empty hands seemed unnatural.

She filled her time with trying to take in as much of the changing landscape around her as she could, attempting to make some kind of mental map. Small villages appeared with greater frequency the farther she went toward the capital. The apparent lack of concern people showed over her appearance had her baffled. One could almost suppose that the sight of a strange adolescent riding a Herald’s Companion was relatively commonplace. The only answer seemed to be as the Guard had hinted, that this sort of thing happened all the time. But why hadn’t her tales made any mention of this? Companions were clearly of a high order of intelligence; look at the way he’d been caring for both of them all along this journey. Her first thought, that he’d run away like a common farmbeast, was obviously incorrect. At this point there wasn’t much doubt in her mind as to which of the two of them was truly in charge. The tales were all true, then—Companions were creatures of an intellect at the least equaling that of their Heralds. She weighed the little she knew of Companions against her experiences of the past three days. It wasn’t enough to help her. The Holderkin held themselves aloof from the Heralds, forbidding the littles to speak of them, and dealing with them only when they must. Only the Elders had any contact with them. And the little illicit gossip she’d heard had concerned only the Heralds and their rumored licentiousness, not the Companions.

But if you had to draw conclusions—Rolan must have chosen to have her accompany him, for there was no question that he could have returned to the Collegium perfectly well on his own. And if that were the case—could he have purposefully selected her for some reason? Perhaps even arrived at the Holding with the express intention of acquiring her and escorting her off to the capital? That was almost too like a fable. Talia simply couldn’t believe that something like that was possible. Not for her—for some mage-gifted youth like Vanyel perhaps, but for a plain little girl of Holderkin? No one in his right mind would even consider such a possibility.

Yet—the questions remained. Why had he appeared when he had; why had he inveigled her into his saddle, and why, of all whys, was he carrying her off to the one place she wanted to go more than anywhere else on the earth or all five Heavens? The puzzle was almost enough to make her forget her idle hands.

When the sixth day of her journey arrived, she’d finished the last of the meat pies, and had decided to make a test of the instructions the guard had given her. Perhaps she would learn more from the next Guard, now that she knew that there was far more going on than she had any hope of puzzling out for herself.

The next village—perhaps—would hold the answers.